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Prologue
SIX YEARS EARLIER — SPRING TRAINING
Max
It’s never going to work.
I give her a month with us before she runs out of here and away from baseball for good. There’s a difference between a big-league clubhouse and a softball locker room. This isn’t college ball anymore, and while I respect Roger Galligher and his judgment, I don’t think he’s made the right decision in hiring this woman as our hitting coach. She’s never coached at the professional level, and only did one year on a college baseball staff – she’s out of her depth here. But I’d never tell her,or Roger, that. So I put my head down and I get ready to start the first full day of training camp.
I’ve been here for a week with the other pitchers and catchers, getting work in before full camp starts. Getting to know the pitching staff and young catchers is my favorite part of camp, and this year’s crop of rookies looks promising. I button up my jersey and assess my uniform to make sure that everything is as it should be, grab my glove, and head to the field.
Walking out of the tunnel into the early morning sun, a slight desert chill in the air, my attention is immediately drawn to the person in the on-deck circle – tight, white uniform pantshugging her legs, jersey loosely fitted to her body, dark brown hair pulled into her signature bun and poking out of the snapback team cap that she wears.
Sutton Davis.
I watch as she takes a few practice swings with the bat in her hands, her impeccable form a reminder of each and every hitting award that she won in college when she played softball. When Roger first hired her, he gathered a few of the guys and told us what he was planning to do, laying out expectations for us as leaders of the team - how to treat her, make sure we set an example for the rest of the team - all things that we shouldn’tneedto be told. It should be a given that any coach, regardless of gender, is respected by the team, and so far – in the few days she’s been with us – she has been.
But the real test has only just begun.
Full camp starts today.
I watch her head off with the morning hitting group, making their way to the batting cages before I find my catcher. They’ve got me paired up with a young kid, drafted in the first round by Detroit a few years ago and shuffled around as trade bait ever since. I’m hopeful that this is his year, that this is the year he’ll get the call to come up. Being paired with him today should be an interesting experience for us both.
At the end of the day, I’m the last one out of the clubhouse. Slinging my duffle over my shoulder, I make my way to the parking lot, but something stops me near the door – it sounds like…someone blowing their nose? Looking around, I don’t see anyone nearby, but then I round the corner to my car. She’s seated on the ground, her head leaned against the older model rental parked a few spaces from mine, eyes closed, cap resting on the hot pavement, and a crumpled wad of tissues in her hand.
One day is all it took to get her to this point.
It’s a shame, too.
I saw her out there today and she looked good. Not just from an appearance standpoint, though she is very striking, but that’s not the point. She looked like shebelongedhere. Helping guys with their swing and stance, demonstrating her own skills, and proving herself as a coach. I know I said I’d give her a month, but in all honesty, I never wanted to see her leave. In fact, I’d like to get to know her if I could. Iwantedto get to know her. In the few weeks we’ve been in camp together, she’s shown that shedoesbelong here; she knows the game inside and out, she was a stellar softball player in her own right, and beyond all of that Roger trusts her, and that’s good enough for me.
The last thing I want is to see her run out of camp like this.
Dropping my duffle bag to the ground, I sink to the pavement beside her, and stretch out my legs in front of me. She shifts beside me and I meet her gaze as I turn to look at her, her intensely green gaze standing in stark contrast to her dark hair and pale skin. The last time I saw her today, her hair was tucked under her cap and her eyes were covered with sunglasses, good thing too or else I’d have been distracted most of the day.
“What do you want?” She sniffles, wiping her nose with the ragged wad of tissue in her hand.
“To see if you’re okay.”
“Never better.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not important.”
“Yes, it is. Because you’re a part of us and I won’t stand for anyone disrespecting you.”
“Don’t worry,” she reaches out a hand and pats me on the leg. “You don’t have to knock heads. I had a little dizzy spell when I got to the parking lot and needed to sit for a minute.”
“Do you have those often?” I ask.
“Only when I take my medication.”
“Any other side effects? You don’t owe me an answer, and I’m certainly not entitled to one, but if you’re dizzy I don’t want you driving back to wherever you’re staying.”
“Nausea,” she winces, squeezing her eyes shut. “Dizziness and nausea.”
“I’m driving you back to the team hotel. Don’t argue.”
